


and the bad dreams lead me to calling you

by fromlaurelgroves



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Bodysharing, F/F, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, lyctors getting freaky idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26827621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromlaurelgroves/pseuds/fromlaurelgroves
Summary: You tried to calm yourself by telling yourself this was a test, a scientific experiment you were running. Hypothesis: it might feel good to let Ianthe Tridentarius fuck you. Whether this was true remained to be seen.Some Harrow/Ianthe PWP, with a surprise appearance by a secret celebrity guest
Relationships: Harrowhark Nonagesimus/Ianthe Tridentarius
Comments: 26
Kudos: 96





	and the bad dreams lead me to calling you

It had been inevitable that this would happen. No matter how much you disliked your sister Lyctor, no matter how much you inwardly rolled your eyes when she talked and sometimes stabbed your fingernails into the meat of your palms to keep yourself from audibly groaning at her dinner-table conversation, there was no avoiding this eventuality. When you were terribly alone in the black of space, with no company except for geriatric necrosaints, and no ally except for an evil rice noodle with beautiful eyes, there was simply no escaping the fact that sooner or later the two of you would give into your base instincts and find yourselves entangled.

At least, that’s what you told yourself. It soothed the shame a little.

Ianthe Tridentarius had one hand--the flesh one--up your shirt and fastened around your breast, and you were making a humiliating noise. To be in any way vulnerable, never mind voluble, in front of Ianthe was nauseating; however, your attempts to bite back your sounds were failing miserably as her thin fingers pinched your nipple, rubbed it, pinched again. Your nipples were quite hard under her touch, and your hips were rocking up, unbidden, and you could feel the fabric of your underwear sticking to you as you got wet. For these things you hated yourself very much.

Ianthe, on the other hand, was looking quite pleased with herself. While you had insisted on keeping all your clothes on, Ianthe had stripped immediately, and now the golden lamplight of her rooms shone on the pale bare length of her as she bent over you. That glossy cornsilk hair fell into your face as Ianthe pressed her mouth to your neck and sucked at you hard, and giggled when you jerked against her.

“I _said_ no marks,” you said coldly, although you were already knitting the broken capillaries back together, the bruise vanishing as quickly as it had formed.

“Oh, Harry,” sighed the white-blonde goblin straddling you. “I never thought a daughter of the Ninth would be so terribly _conventional_ in bed. I mean, some of the stories you hear about nuns! But you never miss an opportunity to disappoint me.”

You glared. The first time this had happened, a week ago, you’d been almost grateful for it. As much as you generally disliked touch, it had been a relief to know that here, at least, was a touch that did not seek to hurt you, that would not stab or dismember you. Since the attack in the bathroom, you were constantly on your guard, jumpy and exhausted. Ianthe’s hands had wrung a kind of rest from you, had distracted you from the paranoid terror in which you spent your days. That fleeting relief had been what brought you back each night to her bed, where you did things that you were furious with yourself for later. But tonight for some reason you were both testy, irritation jumping between you like a lightning strike. With her naked thighs resting on your hips, it was quite easy to reach up into her body through the coccyx and give her spine a hard tug. She yelped as her bones moved without her permission, rolling her off you and onto the mattress. You only let her go when you were sitting on top of her, straddling her hips as she had straddled yours.

“The Ninth House is a religion of obedience,” you said. “Our _convention_ is our power.”

Then you leaned down and kissed her. She kissed back, hard and messy. Your bodies rocked together in a stuttering rhythm, and your hair--when had it gotten so long?--was hanging into her face, dark against her pale tresses. You ran your hands over her, and begrudgingly admitted that touching her was kind of amazing. Not just because she was soft, and even pretty in the yellow light; not just because her nipples were pink and hard and she cried out pleasingly when you twisted them. Touching the Princess of Ida was amazing because you could feel _all_ of her. When you weren’t touching Ianthe, there was a void where she was; you couldn’t sense her at all, no thalergy, no thanergy, nothing. But when your hands were on her you could feel everything: the blood buzzing under the skin, the dopamine and norepinephrine surging as she pressed her hips up into you, the heady ripple of thanergetic signature coming off the furnace of her power. It was dizzying. It was _hot_.

Ianthe twisted one hand, the bone one, hard in your hair; this sent spasms through you, and you grunted into her mouth. Your tongues slid together as she worked the other hand between your bodies, between your thighs, and palmed your clit through your pants. You rocked up against her, embarrassingly hungry, and consented to be rolled onto your back again. 

In the week of your doing this together, you hadn’t let Ianthe take your clothes off. Usually you brought yourself to climax while she kissed you and worked your nipples under your shirt. But her palm on you through your clothes had felt good, and you were curious. Your heart hammered now as she tugged your pants free of your skinny legs, and you tried to calm yourself by telling yourself this was a test, a scientific experiment you were running. Hypothesis: it might feel good to let Ianthe Tridentarius fuck you. Whether this was true remained to be seen.

Ianthe had gotten your pants and underwear off and was surveying you thoughtfully. You could tell that you were very wet; you wondered if she could see it. “Well, Reverend Daughter,” she smirked, “which of your dark desires can I satisfy today?”

You closed your eyes and steeled your nerves. “I would like,” you said, and swallowed, “your fingers. Inside me.” As an unnecessarily polite afterthought, you added: “Please.”

Ianthe cackled. You briefly considered stuffing a bone gag in her mouth. “Unheard of! I thought the Tomb was to remain shut forever! Or is the rock finally going to be rolled away?”

At this point you should have called her a disgusting heretic, or maybe just shoved her off you by the skeleton and stalked out of the room; you did neither of these things. The unbearable truth was that the thought of Ianthe’s long fingers filling you was making your cunt clench, and you were sure that you were dripping. You closed your eyes again, and again said, “Please.”

Ianthe continued to snicker, but eased a finger into you. You breathed deeply, trying to relax your shoulders. She crooked inside you, and pressed her thumb to your clit.

Immediately you were screaming. It was much, much too much. As fascinating and arousing as it had been to feel all of Ianthe’s body under your hands, to have that much sensation singing against your most sensitive places, your throbbing bundles of nerves, was agony. When your vision cleared you were pressed against the headboard with your knees clutched to your chest, and Ianthe was on the floor. For a moment you wondered why she did not get up; then you realized your necromancy was pinning her there. You released her.

“Dramatics!” said the other girl, clambering back onto the mattress. “A simple ‘please slow down, Ianthe, I am an overdelicate virgin who cannot handle herself’ would have sufficed.”

The shock over, you were uncurling, relaxing back onto the bed. “I haven’t been a virgin since last week, Tridentarius, please keep up.”

She scoffed. “Jerking off in front of me hardly counts.”

“The problem,” you said as serenely as possible, “is that your body is too damned loud. You’ll have to use the other hand.”

The smile unfurled across Ianthe’s face like ink in water. “Harry, you sick little bone freak,” she said. “I’m sorry I called you conventional. All right.”

You arranged yourself on your back again. When Ianthe’s construct fingers slid in, they were cool and hard, but perfect. You were slippery, aching, and when she pressed two bone fingers in and up you sucked air through your teeth and bucked against her. The bone thumb found your clitoris, and your hands fisted in the sheets as the pleasure smouldered, caught. The hypothesis was confirmed.

“I _knew_ there was a kinky little ostophile in there somewhere,” the other Lyctor was saying. “There had to be some truth to the stories--all that stuff about bone orgies on the alt--

“Ianthe,” you snapped, although it was a bit hard to talk with electricity pulsing through you with every thrust, “shut up or I will gag you.”

“Ooh," she purred, "don’t threaten me with a good time,” but then quieted and focused on fucking you. The bone fingers working inside you made a wet, embarrassing, sucking sound, and when she slid a third one in you keened, high and desperate as she filled you. You could feel yourself approaching a peak, the tension in your thighs and shoulders ratcheting tighter, the pleasure-pain unspooling towards the point when it would tip into--

And yet it would not happen. The orgasm was lurking at the edge of your consciousness like a shadow in the corner of your vision: when you focused on it, it disappeared. You whined with frustration. It did not help that Ianthe had started talking again. “Is this how you do it when you’re on your own, Harry? Get yourself off with phalanges of your own making? Or maybe that’s not big enough, maybe you’d prefer a fe--”

The bone bit yanked her cheeks back--it would hurt--and pressed down hard on her tongue. Ianthe gagged on it, then moaned a little. You pulled the construct bones deeper into your cunt and reached for an old fantasy, one that had often accompanied you when you were alone in your cell. 

You were in the Tomb, and the Body’s arms were around you. Her body pressed against yours, firm and dead and lovely. She kissed you and your mouth opened for her, the whole of you opened for her as she reached down and slid cool fingers inside you. You sobbed as she took you, gently at first and then harder, and the skeletal fingers working inside you were not Ianthe’s but those of your beloved. She filled you, obliterated you, and your cunt clenched around her as you came for her, crying out meaningless sounds that were not her unknowable name.

When the aftershocks had subsided you looked up. Ianthe had removed her fingers and was staring at you, flushed under her pallid skin. She was drooling around the bone bit you’d forced into her mouth. You took it away, and she choked a little on her spit, and swore.

“You _are_ twisted, Nonagesimus,” she said. “It’s _gorgeous_.”

You were still catching your breath, your heart hammering hard under your ribs. Ianthe lay on her side next to you, and you reached out to trace those soft white thighs. The hours in the training room were giving them some muscle. You twitched your fingers up, and Ianthe hissed, and jerked her head once in a nod. You kept going. 

This part you’d done before. At the top of those thighs was a crop of satiny pale hair; sliding your hand into this, you found that Ianthe was _soaking wet_. You circled her clit with one fingertip, then dipped two fingers into the silky cavern of her. She groaned.

Inside Ianthe Tridentarius was a riot of sound, of noisy living and dying. With your fingers buried in her you could see the muscles as they squeezed around you; sense, a few inches upward, the organs safe in the cavity of her gut. The walls of her cunt were swollen, thrumming with loud blood. The thalergy of her vaginal microbiome was like a fizz, tingling against your fingers as you began to fuck her. It was almost too much to take in, the cacophony of her body--so much that you did not hear her at first when she said “Harry--your mouth.”

“What?”

The yellow hair stuck to the temples with sweat, and the blue-brown eyes were dark. “I want your mouth on me.”

Your mouth, it seemed, was suddenly very dry. You had not done this yet. You moved slowly so that you were kneeling on the floor, your face at her cunt, and with your free hand fumbled to spread her folds. You pressed your mouth very gingerly to her clit.

The taste nearly knocked you backwards. You moved your tongue a little, and the other woman murmured in what seemed like pleasure, but that overwhelm was tugging at you again, the feeling of _too much_. Ianthe was right: you were a virgin who could not handle herself. You did not know what to do. 

It was at this point, Harrow, that I knew I needed to step in. It’s not like I’d ever eaten pussy before either, but unlike you I had done some serious study of this particular art form, and I thought I had an idea of how it was done. Plus you were going nowhere fast. You were seized up like an idiot halfway through sucking off a Princess of Ida, and we couldn’t have that. You were in such a panic you didn’t even resist when I gently pushed you out of the way, and took over.

Now let me just say I had looked forward to this experience for a long time, but there was nobody I’d thought of doing it to _less_ than Ianthe Tridentarius. The idea was a little revolting, honestly. But this was the situation you’d gotten yourself into, and I wasn’t going to leave you there without an assist. What kind of cavalier would that make me, after all.

We got down to business. I rolled your tongue against Ianthe’s clit, sucked it into your mouth and worked it a little. She moaned, and pulled you closer by your hair, so I figured we were doing a good job. I remembered to keep working your fingers into her, curling and uncurling against those slick walls, and I felt her tightening around your hand. I traced your tongue in circles around her, trying to remember everything I’d read in _Fourth House Fantasies XX_ , and I could feel her throb under you. You were hanging off to the side, letting me run the show, but I could still feel a little of your awareness. You could feel Ianthe _doing_ something to her nerves--taking them away, or something, to dull the feeling or make it last longer. I bit her, just a little, and she howled.

She was rocking hard against you now, and I matched her rhythm as well as I could, pressing your fingers in deep and crooking them against that rough inside spot. Your hand was wet with her all the way to the wrist, and she was so tight I could barely move. Her thighs squeezed around your ears, and as I sucked her again she put all the nerves back, all at once, and spasmed, screaming.

When she opened her eyes again, her face formed a rare expression of genuine concern. “Harry!” she said, and “What’s going on?”

You did not know what was going on. You were kneeling on the carpet, and your nose was dripping blood onto your bare knees. You found that you were weeping, and you did not know why.

**Author's Note:**

> I spent a week listening to the Ht9 audiobook, and then I spent a week listening to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2v7wXak07OY) on repeat, and then this fic happened. Enjoy.
> 
> Also, what is this pairing called? Nonentarius? Tridagesimus? Can you let me know???


End file.
